By the time I stepped into the study room with my father walking in front of me, I could feel my throat and eyes burning. In those few minutes, I was suppressing the urge to scream out a litany of curses at the top of my lungs. Something was off, and I could not wrap my head around it. 

The minute we sat down, my bottom sank into the familiar cushion, heels digging into the carpet, my mouth parted. My father sat across me, his folded hands resting on the mahogany desk. The sound of a ...